- Reaction score
- 7,430
- Points
- 1,360
In light of some interest a while back here on mortuary affairs:
http://forums.army.ca/forums/index.php?action=printpage;topic=44170.0
I wanted to share this extensive piece on how US Mortuary Affairs handles the dead, as well as their personal effects. It tells the story of how 2 paratroopers killed in Iraq made their way home. The piece is too long to post in its entirety, so I've started you off with a highlight of the Mortuary Affairs part - long, but worth it.
VERY tough job, and one that's busier than it's been in the past -- at one level, unsung heroes we rarely hear about. To the 92 Mikes, as well as all the Canadians handling the fallen, wish you didn't have to be so busy, but thanks for the respectful job you do.
Shared in accordance with the "fair dealing" provisions, Section 29, of the Copyright Act - http://www.cb-cda.gc.ca/info/act-e.html#rid-33409
"Two soldiers: How the dead come home"
DAN BAUM, The New Yorker, 2004-08-09
http://milnewstbay.pbwiki.com/index.php?wiki=70495
(....)
Bang and Seiden now entered the world of Mortuary Affairs, the Army’s hidden but exquisitely reverent system for returning fallen soldiers to their families. Every job in the Army has a numerical designation—infantrymen are 11B, medics are 91W, truck drivers are 88M—and those who handle the dead go by the designation 92M, or “ninety-two mike.” Mortuary Affairs is a small specialty. The active-duty Army, of nearly half a million soldiers, has only one company of ninety-two mikes—the 54th Mortuary Affairs Company—consisting of two hundred and twenty-five men and women. (The Army is slated to create a second Mortuary Affairs company in 2006.)
Ninety-two mikes are trained in six and a half weeks at Fort Lee, Virginia, by Douglas Howard, a sixty-three-year-old civilian mortician who served as a Mortuary Affairs specialist during the Vietnam War. (The designation was then fifty-seven foxtrot.) Howard’s face is deeply lined, but his hair and mustache are inky black. He chose his profession after being told, as a high-school senior, that his personality suited the business; he moves with stiff formality and speaks in soft, clipped tones. The Army has no trouble filling its ninety-two-mike slots with volunteers, Howard said. Many grow up in mortuary families. Others recognize in themselves a capacity for serenity in the face of death. They visit a morgue in nearby Richmond during their training, and Howard watches them closely; he weeds out those who blanch, freeze, or—worse—make jokes in the presence of the dead. At the vaulted warehouse where the ninety-two mikes are trained using hundred-and-seventy-five-pound mannequins, Howard introduced me to Captain Kelly Dobert, a twenty-nine-year-old West Point graduate, who in January will take command of the 54th in Iraq. Dobert is thin and pale, with blond hair and dark circles under her eyes, but she lit up in a bright smile when she shook my hand. “This is the command I requested,” she said. “It really touched my heart.” Mortuary Affairs is a lonely and subdued specialty. Other soldiers wear insignia to identify their function—crossed cannons for artillery, a screaming eagle for the 101st Airborne—but Mortuary Affairs has no unit patch of its own. Members of the company keep to themselves, in order to protect other soldiers’ morale. Other units take two-fisted mottoes—“Death from Above,” “Sledgehammer,” “No Slack.” The motto of Mortuary Affairs is “Dignity, Reverence, Respect.”
When an Army division goes into combat, ninety-two mikes quietly establish collection points in discreet locations. Company commanders typically know where they are; soldiers typically don’t. A collection point is nothing more than a couple of litters on sawhorses, a hand-washing station composed of a steel basin and a jerrican hung in a wooden frame, and a small desk for paperwork. Camouflage netting covers the station, and a one-square-foot sign announces its function: “Mortuary Affairs Collection Point.” A green, generator-powered refrigeration container big enough for twelve bodies stands outside. Six ninety-two mikes generally man a collection point.
(....)
http://forums.army.ca/forums/index.php?action=printpage;topic=44170.0
I wanted to share this extensive piece on how US Mortuary Affairs handles the dead, as well as their personal effects. It tells the story of how 2 paratroopers killed in Iraq made their way home. The piece is too long to post in its entirety, so I've started you off with a highlight of the Mortuary Affairs part - long, but worth it.
VERY tough job, and one that's busier than it's been in the past -- at one level, unsung heroes we rarely hear about. To the 92 Mikes, as well as all the Canadians handling the fallen, wish you didn't have to be so busy, but thanks for the respectful job you do.
Shared in accordance with the "fair dealing" provisions, Section 29, of the Copyright Act - http://www.cb-cda.gc.ca/info/act-e.html#rid-33409
"Two soldiers: How the dead come home"
DAN BAUM, The New Yorker, 2004-08-09
http://milnewstbay.pbwiki.com/index.php?wiki=70495
(....)
Bang and Seiden now entered the world of Mortuary Affairs, the Army’s hidden but exquisitely reverent system for returning fallen soldiers to their families. Every job in the Army has a numerical designation—infantrymen are 11B, medics are 91W, truck drivers are 88M—and those who handle the dead go by the designation 92M, or “ninety-two mike.” Mortuary Affairs is a small specialty. The active-duty Army, of nearly half a million soldiers, has only one company of ninety-two mikes—the 54th Mortuary Affairs Company—consisting of two hundred and twenty-five men and women. (The Army is slated to create a second Mortuary Affairs company in 2006.)
Ninety-two mikes are trained in six and a half weeks at Fort Lee, Virginia, by Douglas Howard, a sixty-three-year-old civilian mortician who served as a Mortuary Affairs specialist during the Vietnam War. (The designation was then fifty-seven foxtrot.) Howard’s face is deeply lined, but his hair and mustache are inky black. He chose his profession after being told, as a high-school senior, that his personality suited the business; he moves with stiff formality and speaks in soft, clipped tones. The Army has no trouble filling its ninety-two-mike slots with volunteers, Howard said. Many grow up in mortuary families. Others recognize in themselves a capacity for serenity in the face of death. They visit a morgue in nearby Richmond during their training, and Howard watches them closely; he weeds out those who blanch, freeze, or—worse—make jokes in the presence of the dead. At the vaulted warehouse where the ninety-two mikes are trained using hundred-and-seventy-five-pound mannequins, Howard introduced me to Captain Kelly Dobert, a twenty-nine-year-old West Point graduate, who in January will take command of the 54th in Iraq. Dobert is thin and pale, with blond hair and dark circles under her eyes, but she lit up in a bright smile when she shook my hand. “This is the command I requested,” she said. “It really touched my heart.” Mortuary Affairs is a lonely and subdued specialty. Other soldiers wear insignia to identify their function—crossed cannons for artillery, a screaming eagle for the 101st Airborne—but Mortuary Affairs has no unit patch of its own. Members of the company keep to themselves, in order to protect other soldiers’ morale. Other units take two-fisted mottoes—“Death from Above,” “Sledgehammer,” “No Slack.” The motto of Mortuary Affairs is “Dignity, Reverence, Respect.”
When an Army division goes into combat, ninety-two mikes quietly establish collection points in discreet locations. Company commanders typically know where they are; soldiers typically don’t. A collection point is nothing more than a couple of litters on sawhorses, a hand-washing station composed of a steel basin and a jerrican hung in a wooden frame, and a small desk for paperwork. Camouflage netting covers the station, and a one-square-foot sign announces its function: “Mortuary Affairs Collection Point.” A green, generator-powered refrigeration container big enough for twelve bodies stands outside. Six ninety-two mikes generally man a collection point.
(....)
